


Nuvole Bianche

by thelanding



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ballet, Alternate Universe - Pianist, Alternate Universe - Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Meet Differently, Ballet Dancer Sherlock Holmes, First Meetings, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-14
Updated: 2018-01-14
Packaged: 2019-03-04 17:06:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13369242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelanding/pseuds/thelanding
Summary: John Watson is a pianist struggling to keep his job at The Royal Ballet. Sherlock Holmes decides to help.





	Nuvole Bianche

**Author's Note:**

  * For [linniess](https://archiveofourown.org/users/linniess/gifts).



> This work is a secret Santa gift to a dear friend of mine, @linniess 
> 
> It's an alternate first meeting for Sherlock and John that involves ballet and music, yay! It was supposed to be much longer, but unfortunately, I didn't have the time to write everything I wanted before the deadline. Anyway, I hope you like this, and if you do, please let me know so maybe I can elaborate it further in the future. 
> 
> xoxo, Ana
> 
> PS: I'm not british, so this is not britpicked or betaed, but hopefully my english serves it right lol!

People misconceive what constitutes a crowd. The literal meaning of it, _“a large number of persons gathered somewhere,”_ may apply to many cases, but it’s not always accurate. Out of the dictionary, crowds are relative, and John Watson was the living proof of that. He had experienced war for years, faced the open field surrounded by hundreds of armed soldiers and their endless noisily mess, and yet he never felt as claustrophobic there as he was feeling in the morning of his second day of work at The Royal Ballet, stuck in an exceptionally crowded office where not a single soul occupied the space besides him and Greg Lestrade, the director of the company.

 

“So, the week barely started and I already received five complaints concerning your _belonging_ to this place. Look, John, I trust Mike’s referral, but beyond that, I know you’re talented. I’ve seen your work before and I truly believe you could be great at this. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have made you an offer.”

 

 _But?_ John thought to himself, trying to focus and listen to Greg. He was certain the man was about to dismiss his services and lecture him for failing such a big opportunity, and he had every reason to do so.

 

“But I must warn you, I can’t keep a musician that doesn’t provide the dancers what they need. I thought it would flow naturally from you, considering your background in classical _and_ jazz, but things don’t seem to be working out. You do know that a ballet pianist doesn’t have a lot of freedom to creativity, don’t you?”

 

“I’m aware, yes.” He managed to answer in a low voice.

 

Since yesterday, when John walked into a ballet studio for the first time in his life, excited and bubbling with ideas for the future, all the sheet music that Greg handed to him in their first meeting memorised, things drastically changed. Being in a place like this, surrounded by extraordinary people, all of whom seemed to know exactly to which purpose they served in this world... Something messed with John’s abilities and he wasn’t sure if it was his nerves or the unfamiliarity of it all. The fact is he wasn’t giving his best piano performances here, far from that. He picked the wrong tempo in class for bar exercises more than once, kept missing his cue on corps rehearsals and even mistook a dancer’s solo for another. Teachers whispered criticisms about him in the corridors, and the enthusiasm he had for joining the company the day before quickly turned into resignation to the apparent truth that he did not and could never belong here.

 

“You’re an artist, John. Your pieces are among the most beautiful I’ve ever heard. I have total confidence in your technique and sensibility. I’m just... afraid that you’re being affected by the world of rules and repetition that is ballet. Most dancers take years to find passion in their moves, I can only imagine how harder it is for you to find something to connect with here. Tell me frankly, are you sure you want to do this?”

 

He wasn't, but before he could answer, a deep voice invaded the office.

 

“Being a composer doesn’t pay bills, Gavin.”

 

John looked behind and stood up in surprise, to see a brunette figure in tights and jumper leaning at the door. He walked slowly in the stranger’s direction, expecting to greet him, but the man ignored John’s raising hand and walked to Lestrade’s table, sitting on it and serving himself a glass of water.

 

“Besides, what good would be for a former army doctor to give up on his only shot at doing something he likes, now that he can’t go back to war anymore? His therapist would certainly suffer the consequences.”

 

John’s mind was so occupied processing the situation - and instinctively evaluating the height and timber of the stranger - that it took him a couple of seconds to discern what was being said and finally react to it. When he did, it wasn’t a smart reaction anyway: “Wait, what?” was all he managed to answer.

 

“Which was it, by the way? Afghanistan or Iraq?”

 

Grasping the man’s features, though - the dark curls loosen in his forehead, the prominent cheekbones that framed every curve in his face -, John suddenly felt an inexplicable surge of trust. As if he had known that stranger his entire life. “Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you know-”

 

“For God’s sake, stop being an arsehole.” Lestrade took the glass from the man’s hand impatiently.

 

At their bickery, John broke eye contact.

 

“And for the last time, it’s Greg!” Lestrade gestured for the tall figure to get off his table, then turned to John with an apologetic look. “Don’t let him bother you, he’s a bastard - but he’s also a great man.” He whispered the last part cautiously into John’s ear so the man wouldn’t listen. 

 

A mobile buzzed next to them and the stranger exclaimed. “Oh, I have to go, duty calls. Lestrade, give the pianist another chance. He's good.” He turned to look into John’s eyes for a second time then. “I can tutor you. Tomorrow noon, my place.”

 

“Oi! You’re not the only one who recognises talent when you see it, you know?” Lestrade grumbled. “I was decided to give him a second chance before you invaded my office, but sure, I’ll take your orders, _your highness_.” He mocked.

 

The man walked to the door and left the room. John looked at Lestrade, unclear of what just happened, but relieved for the influence it had on his future at the company. He was afraid of this job, for sure, but the stranger had a point: he needed it. “Thank you, Greg. You didn’t need to-”

 

“It’s okay. I trust you’ll make the best of this opportunity, deal?”

 

John agreed and they shook hands. “Deal. And, hm, what did _your friend_ mean by ‘tutoring’? Does he happen to be a pianist too?”

 

“Oh, I have no idea. He might be, it’s always a surprise with him.” He sat in his chair and, noticing the worry in John’s expression, showed him the door with a smile. “Go after him, you might appreciate his _help_ after all, whatever it is.”

 

John ran and reached the corridor, gasping. “Wait,” he screamed. The man turned around and regarded him curiously. “Hm, sorry, I don’t want to take your time, but can I just say something?”

 

He nodded in response and resumed his walk. John accompanied him closely.

 

“I guess I just wanted to- I mean- I’m thanking you.”

 

The man looked at John and immediately burst into laughter. An adorable laughter, John should add.  
  
"You ran all the way here to  _thank_ me?”

 

“Yeah. Greg said you didn’t impact his decision about giving me another chance, but I believe you did, somehow. So thank you, that helped me a lot. I needed this job.”

 

“I also exposed you in front of your boss and deduced your secrets. A behavior that Gabriel emphatically defined as that of an _arsehole_.”

 

“Gabriel?”

 

The man waved his hands in the air, unconcerned.

 

“What you said back there,” John continued “Yeah, it was unexpected.”

 

A fascinated look crossed the man’s eyes. “ _Unexpected?_ Not what people normally say, I’ll give you that.”

 

“Well, it was. Slightly rude too, but mostly impressive.” John admitted. “The thing is, I don’t reckon we’ve met, so how did you do that?” He was not someone from his past, and around here, one could only get information about John if… Damn, of course! “Mike told you.” John murmured.

 

“Mike?” The man considered the name. “You don’t mean Mike Stamford, the moron from physio, do you?”

 

John confirmed and watched as the man rolled his eyes. “Don’t be an idiot, John.”

 

“There, you did it again! I haven’t introduced myself and now you know my name. If you haven’t learned about me from Mike, then how do you know these things? And, please, explain how do you expect to _‘tutor me’_ tomorrow or anything if you haven’t given me neither your address or your name, for that matter?”

 

The man stopped abruptly in front of John, blocking his passage to the corner they were about to turn and practically pushing him against the wall.

 

“I don’t _know_ , John, I _see_. Your haircut and the way you hold yourself says military. But your conversation, or lack of, when I entered Lestrade’s office, says you are frustrated in your professional life, both military and musical. You don’t make money from composing because, frankly, nobody does. The way you quickly stood when you heard me at the door could be interpreted as a soldier impulse, but a mere soldier wouldn’t be so gentle to make room for me to pass when I was being so intrusive, which means that you’re more attentive than defensive, so Army doctor – obvious. Your face is tanned but no tan above the wrists. You’ve been abroad, but not sunbathing. Your limp is really bad when you walk but you don’t look for a chair when you stand, like you’ve forgotten about it, so it’s at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic. Wounded in action, then. Wounded in action, suntan – Afghanistan or Iraq.”

 

John wondered if he would ever be capable of speaking again after being bombarded like that, but then his mouth voluntarily opened to satisfy the rest of his curiosity. “You said I had a therapist.”

 

“You’ve got a psychosomatic limp – of _course_ you’ve got a therapist.”

 

“Brilliant.” He gasped and licked his own bottom lip, watching a blush paint the man’s face red at the compliment. John didn’t make a conscious decision to flirt, but leaning more and more closely was definitely a sign that his body decided to act of its own accord.

 

“What about my name?” John encouraged him to proceed, excited to hear more.

 

“The easiest of all.”

 

“What, you saw it in my trousers or something?” John provoked. Damn, now it was his tongue flirting of its own accord.

 

“Could be.” The man moved to free John’s way and they began walking again to the exit of the building.

 

“What, seriously?” John wouldn’t be surprised with one more impossible _deduction_ coming from the man. He truly seemed like a genius.

 

“Nope, Lestrade had your papers on the table. And I’ve heard negative comments about you from teachers all morning. If Graham’s questionable taste in music and Mike’s terrible massage technique are your reference for this job, then you’ll have to convince me better. Good is a start, but not enough to stay for long.”

 

“Oh, piss off!”

 

“ _That’s_ what people normally say.”

 

They got to the main entrance together, chuckling. The sound reverberated in the hall and filled it with life. The silence that came after was not uncomfortable. In fact, it finally brought to the place that sense of familiarity John was missing since his disastrous debut yesterday.

“How do you know I’m good, though?”

“Oh, that. Just a guess.” He answered, to which John raised his eyebrows. 

“After all that, I wouldn’t expect you to be a just-a-guess person.”

“Look," he averted, "you’ve never been in an environment like this before, John, and it’s understandable that you’re anxious. But for a musician to succeed here, they need to master the basics of ballet. That’s where I come in.”

 

They were interrupted by another message buzzing in the man’s mobile and John felt guilty for holding him back when he knew he was in a rush.

 

“I didn’t want to delay you.” John apologised.

 

“You’re doing me a favour. Today’s a 6.”

 

“What is?”

 

“Choreography showreel. The company always wants my approval because the others are too lazy to put their brains to work or practice having an opinion. I promised to overlook below-sevens, but sometimes I get bored.”

 

“I knew it, you’re important! I figured you had to be a principal dancer, from the way you talked to Lestrade.”  
  
“Hm. I was, indeed, a principal, until last year. Performed on stage for 25 years and then retired. Just like you.”

 

“What happened?”

 

“Left knee. Took me six months to heal it, but it was never good enough to get back to ballet.”

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

“A burden every dancer has to carry at some point. It’s fine, I found my way around it.”

 

“So you’re what, a judge now? Keeping scores on others’ performances and stuff?”

 

“You see but you do not observe.” He smirked and turned to leave. “Tomorrow, Watson! You’re gonna dance! Oh, by the way”, he turned around, “the name is Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street.” 

 

He winked his eye and then walked away to his destination, leaving John in the hall, surrounded by dozens of people that entered and exited the building, and conversations that erupted loudly and chaotically from everywhere. A dictionary would surely define that as a crowd, but John had never been more aware of the relativism of the term than when his vigilant eyes followed the _still-stranger-but-now-with-a-proper-name-to-be-referred-to_ vanish upstairs, clearly the only person in the world that John cared to think about or pay attention to, at that moment. When he got home, he did the the most sensible thing one could do under such circumstances: googled _Sherlock Holmes_ and waited for the next day like a teenager about to get himself into a lot of fun - and trouble.

 

 _Sherlock Holmes:_ _Former Principal Dancer, Resident Choreographer, Artistic Director and Consulting Choreographer of The Royal Ballet._ _Though not the first to achieve such a long and successful career at a ballet company, Sherlock Holmes is undoubtedly one of the best dancers and choreographers ever known in the history of England, if not_ _the one_ _, having won several editions of the National Dance Awards and Grand Prix._ _Wrote about 243 types of knee injuries after being retired from dancing due to one._


End file.
